Rockette
by Caos Accidentale
Summary: So Tony lied about his 'first time'. The question is, just why did he lie about it and what really happened? Version 1 of 2 Part 1 of 3? for the NFA 1st Time Challenge
1. Prelude to a Kiss and Other Stuff

A/N: Not particularly important to this story, but this takes place in my "Geekverse" (set up in my story "Geek"). You don't have to read that to read this story, but do need to know that in this 'verse, Tony skipped ahead 3 grades in school.

This is for the nfacommunity First Time Challenge (if I can get it completed in time, anyway…)

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Rockette (Part 1 of 3?): Prelude to a Kiss...and Other Stuff

"Why don't you tell her how I lost my virginity?" Tony DiNozzo growled at his Junior Field Agent, Timothy McGee, as they made their way onto the elevator. He scoffed at McGee's pathetic excuse about being tricked. Probie, indeed.

This just illustrated, yet again, why he needed to keep on McGee's case until the kid developed a thicker skin, learned to keep quiet under duress, and for God's sake not let himself get _tricked_ so easily. If Tim caved so easily under "friendly-fire" Tony sincerely worried about what would happen if McGee ever fell into enemy hands and faced interrogation by torture.

Okay, so Tony had to admit that even when the kid did develop those skills, he would probably never tire of the…'lessons'. It's always good to keep such skills honed, he justified. He did look forward to the day that McGee would be able to give _almost_ as well as he took, though. Sure, Tim would never be able to match his skills, but at that point he wouldn't worry about the Probie quite so much.

"I've been meaning to ask you about that, Tony. How does a 15-year-old boy go about meeting a coquette?" Ziva David jibed tartly, reveling at the opportunity to embarrass her coworker by beating him at one of his own games. Her eyes sparked as she silently dared him to answer.

"She means Rockette, Boss," Tim clarified, much to Tony's chagrin.

Rarely had Tony been so glad to be at the receiving end of a Gibbs-Glare-of-Death-#46 ™, as it effectively ended the conversation before it could begin.

As the elevator door slid shut, Tony glared (a DiNozzo-Special#2™) at McGee, though it was mostly to cover his feelings of humiliation. This was not a story he wanted to tell. Not to her and definitely not to Gibbs. Not to anyone, really, but especially not to either of them--or Abby. God, he didn't even want to think of how Abby would react if she ever found out…

He wouldn't be able to lie to any of them as easily as he'd done with McGee. Okay, yes; he lied. Of course he lied! But the point was that he lied to McGee in what was supposed to be strict confidence. It wasn't McGee's place to go spreading private stories to Ziva (and now Gibbs!) of all people. To make things worse now that she smelled blood in the water, she'd needle and push until he admitted the truth. Perhaps she might buy a different lie if he crafted it right.

But Gibbs? Tony doubted that Gibbs actually cared one iota about his loss of virginity story; the marine would just be disappointed with his dishonesty. Was already disappointed, he mentally amended, feeling the weight of Gibbs' gaze. He carefully avoided looking at any of them, hoping that by the time they reached the car Ziva would be ready to move on to a new subject.

Of course, DiNozzos (at least those of the Anthony variety) were usually not that lucky, and today was no different.

All afternoon she kept teasing him. Niggling him with little innuendos and not-so-covertly trying to goad him into revealing the truth. Or at least get him to admit that he'd lied in the first place. Problem was that he couldn't do that. Not in front of Tim, anyway. It wouldn't do to have Probie see him get 'tricked'--that would completely undermine the whole point of the training.

By the end of the day, he was completely frazzled and on the verge of breaking. He actually wanted to tell. God forgive him, he thought that maybe he even _needed_ to talk about it.

But not to Ziva. He didn't think he'd ever be able to face her if she knew.

Not to Abby, either. She'd…she'd be totally Abby. And it would be nice to be Abbyed a little, but…he didn't want her to look at him differently, the way she would once she knew. Certainly not to Probie; McGee had proven that he couldn't hold in a secret. And it wasn't the sort of conversation he could imagine having with kindly--grandfatherly--Ducky. All of them had already left for the day, anyway.

Which left…his eyes drifted to Gibbs' vacant desk.

Oh, Hell, no.

No. So, that wasn't a possibility, either. Gibbs wouldn't treat him any different; probably wouldn't look at him different or anything. But the marine also probably wouldn't respect him anymore. Of course that would imply that the man even respected him. But if Gibbs knew…well, odds were he wouldn't earn that respect any time soon. Perhaps ever. Despite what he might tell anyone else, losing his virginity was not among the proud moments of his life. Ironically, it was one of those moments that he wished he could erase from his memory entirely. Or at least tuck it back into the deep recesses of his mind again, where it wouldn't bother him anymore. Maybe if he went downtown tonight and picked up some cute little blon--

"Something on your mind, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked from directly behind him, causing him to jump ever so slightly in his seat.

Tony forced a grin and looked up . "Nope. Head's empty as always, Boss," he joked self-depreciatingly. His grin faded as Gibbs simply raised an eyebrow in response. "It's nothing, really."

"Uh huh," Gibbs uttered, not believing, but not pressing. At least not obviously.

"Just something stupid," Tony amended.

Gibbs nodded as though in agreement and Tony felt his face flushing, knowing that he was being tested by one of Gibbs' own special 'interrogation' techniques.

A couple minutes later he found himself faced with another one of them. When Gibbs walked away, he thought the danger had passed, but then Gibbs had returned with a small flask and his own coffee mug, which he set down on Tony's desk. Tony watched numbly as Gibbs unscrewed the cap and poured a small amount in the mug. He looked at it warily for a few moments, hesitant to take it. If he was going to talk, he would need a few ounces of liquid courage. But if he drank, he'd pretty much be committing himself to talking. He weighed his options for what felt to him to be an eternity while Gibbs patiently waited. And then, with a deep breath, he reached toward the mug.

He was completely thrown when Gibbs slapped his hand away. "You make it a habit out of drinking from other people's glasses, DiNozzo?" his boss scolded him, though he swore he could see an amused glint in the older man's eyes. There was something about the inanity of the moment that made him a lot more confident about what he was about to do.

Still, some liquid courage would certainly help him get started. He reached into his drawer to pull out his Ohio State U mug, which he held out for Gibbs to grace with a finger of bourbon. He watched in a slight daze as Gibbs didn't stop at the expected amount but continued to pour until the flask ran dry around the 4 finger mark.

He took a large gulp, wincing inwardly as he felt the burn as the liquid flowed down his throat. He closed his eyes and set the mug down. He probably shouldn't drink, he realized. This conversation was probably going to depress him as it was.

"A Rockette, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked quietly and Tony opened his eyes to gauge just how much the man was making fun of him. Except all he saw in his bosses' eyes was concern.

He chuckled a little. "Hey, sounds impressive, doesn't it?" he replied, a bitter smile forming on his lips. "They're hot. Sex symbols and all. Flex-i-ble," he added with a lecherous tone that fooled neither of them. His gaze drifted back to his mug, and he paradoxically sobered as he stared at the amber fluid.

"Tony?"

"This may come as a shock to you, Boss," he started slowly, "but I wasn't exactly a popular kid." He smiled wryly, figuring that Gibbs probably already had that little factoid figured out long ago, despite his best attempts to keep that secret close to his chest. "I mean, come on. How could I be? I was the weird kid whose mom dressed him up in sailor suits. And then I was the weird little genius kid in a class with kids who were three years older than him…whose mom dressed him up in sailor suits." He began to actually giggle at the image he knew Gibbs was probably getting in his head.

"Tony," Gibbs called gently, as he watched his Senior Field Agent slowly losing his grip. Tony's laughter stopped abruptly and he looked up from the mug, exposing his too-bright eyes, glittering with tears he did his best not to shed.

"I was always athletic and I loved sports. Football, basketball, baseball…and I was good at them. Really good!" His smile was momentarily more genuine until he forced himself to continue. "At least I was until you compared me to these guys who were older and practically twice my size. So of course I was always picked last for any team. And that's if I was even picked at all. If there was an odd number, you can bet I was the one who got left out every time. Hell, my gym teacher usually even picked me to do the 'honor' of being a damn scorekeeper instead of actually playing in the game."

He was stalling, and they both knew it.

"If things were bad at school--and they were--they were a hundred times worse at home." He swallowed hard, his eyes drifting back to the mug. "After mom died…"


	2. Chapter 2

If things were bad at school--and they were--they were a hundred times worse at home. After mom died, there really wasn't anyone left who actually cared what happened to me.

Nanny Jean pretended to, of course, but we both knew it was only because she was being paid. She wasn't a Mary Poppins sort of nanny. We didn't sing songs or play games or even really talk much. Most of the time she simply made sure that I made it home from school and got tucked away in my room before I could disturb anyone or break anything. And then she'd go back to watching her 'Stories'.

In a way it's a good thing we weren't really close because a couple months after mom's funeral, Father decided that I was quite old enough not to have a nanny. He figured I could probably walk from the service entrance and up to my room every day unescorted.

He overestimated me, as it turned out. I was obedient the first few days, but without Nanny Jean there to shepherd me, I had a habit of finding excuses not to go to my room.

The first time I ventured out, I made my way to the kitchens and spent the afternoon chattering with Cook. With Nanny Jean gone, there hadn't been anyone at all to listen to me talk about my day even if it was only for the couple minutes between the door and my room. And it wasn't like I had friends at school to talk to. So I was pretty psyched when Cook let me tell him all about everything--from how my music teacher Ms. Forkin picked me to do a solo in music class and how she said I had 'real potential' if I would just focus myself, to how upset I was when stupid Marco called 'move in' when it was my turn at kickball but how I showed everyone when I kicked it way past everyone and they all had to go running way out into the field while I made it all the way around all the bases before they got back.

And then of course I had to tell Cook all about the day before and the day before that and the movie I saw last weekend and...well, you get the idea.

So…the next day when I got home I was met at the door by Father's assistant, Mr. Moore, and directed to go to Father's office. He was in a meeting, but I was instructed to sit outside the door until he called for me.

After a short time talking to the Moore-Man, I was instructed to sit silently and wait until Father was available. And a few minutes after that I was instructed to sit silently and perfectly still. Which a couple minutes later I learned included not tapping my fingers in my lap or smacking my lips (which I wasn't doing; I was lip syncing and playing air drums, thank you very much!) Mooresie was unamused with my performance, however, and he got even more irritated when I sat perfectly still and silent; staring as close to unblinkingly at him.

Can't win, right? I mean, I was just doing what he told me to do, but he just started…flipping out on me, you know?

Anyway, so Father's meeting ended just about that same time and Moorelington went in to let him know I was waiting.

It's weird, you know, because that was actually the first time that Father had ever invited me into his office. Usually I only got to be there when my mom took me in. Beyond that, I hadn't really even talked to Father for weeks. I'd really only even seen him during Dinner, and we didn't talk then. Etiquette dictated that at the table I was to be seen and not heard, or at least speak only when spoken to. Unfortunately Father was not one to talk while he dined, and he usually had business to attend to after dinner, so there just wasn't time to chat.

So I was pretty excited when Mooredred finally came out and told me that Father was ready for me.

"Good afternoon, Father!" I greeted as I bound into the room, eager to talk to him. I couldn't wait to tell him all about Ms. Forkin and kickball, and everything else that had happened since I'd started back to school.

"Sit down, Anthony," he commanded me.

"Okay, but first I just want to show you this--"

"I said _sit down_!" he barked.

I froze, and gaped at him wide-eyed. Why was he mad? What had I done wrong? I just wanted to--

"SIT!"

I sat, making sure to keep perfect posture and obediently placing my hands in my lap. He remained eerily quiet for at least a couple minutes while I did my best not to fidget. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but knew that I wasn't to speak until he indicated that I should.

"How old are you, Anthony?" he asked in a too quiet voice. I blinked. Didn't he know?

"Eleven, sir," I answered, wondering if this was some sort of trick question. He stares at me for a few moments and I can feel anger radiating off of him. I shrunk back in my chair. I may not have had any friends at school or anything, but it wasn't like anyone actually _hated_ me. But…the way he was looking at me--full of loathing and disappointment…

"Do you need a wet nurse, Anthony?"

I swallowed hard, and feeling that my eyes were getting wet I blinked rapidly a few times as I cautiously answered, "No, sir."

"When I get reports like the ones I did this morning and then again just now, I wonder," he replied back to me. What was he talking about? "I will not have you disturbing my staff," he informed me sharply.

"Disturbing…?"

His glare hardened and I snapped my mouth shut. I honestly didn't know what he was talking about until he spelled out to me how Cook had apparently complained to him about my presence in the kitchens and Moore had told him how insubordinate and incorrigible I was in the waiting room. I wasn't too surprised about Moore; he was grouchy and there was no way to please him. But I didn't understand about the other. I hadn't disturbed Cook. He'd been interested in my stories; I'm sure he'd been! He wouldn't really have threatened to quit if I ever went back down there. When this was done with, maybe I should go talk to him and clarify what was wrong…

"And," Father continued my angry tear down, "I got your mid-term report today."

I brightened. I didn't normally care about such things as grades aside from the fact that every time when she saw all the "A" marks, Mom would always take me out for a movie, ice cream, and a gift of my choosing. She was always so proud.

Father, on the other hand, it turned out was not pleased.

Which teacher hadn't given me an A? I wondered silently as he continued to lay into me. By the time he was done, I'd actually wished he had just spanked me or something instead of making me feel as though I was the most worthless kid in the history of kids.

When it was over, he pushed me bodily out of his office and threw the offending report card after me. I lowered my head when I saw the way Moore was sneering at me. It was too late for him to not see the wetness on my cheeks or the redness of my eyes, but I couldn't bear seeing the satisfied look on his face.

I almost just left it, but curiosity got the better of me and I snatched the report card from the floor and fled with it to my room where I could view it in private.

When I did view it, I understood Father's tirade even less. Every single one of my grades was an A. There wasn't even a single A-. I knew that grades weren't everything, but how was I supposed to do better than all As? Maybe it was *too* good, I speculated. Showed him how much of a geek I was? All Bs would probably be a better way to go, I figured. Dad had actually called me a geek, just like some of the kids at school did. So I had to do better about being more average. Except DiNozzos were never average, I remembered him declaring on more than one occasion. So I had to be better than average without going into Geek territory. Aim for Bs, then.

And then I spotted something else that probably played a part in angering him. The comments section. My heart sank as I read through them. Most of my teachers said something that was positively glowing about my capabilities, but…most of them also used some variation of 'but needs to focus' or 'but needs to work on behavioral issues', or 'needs to stop fidgeting'.

Oh.

I sighed and lay down on my bed, mulling it all over. How was I supposed to fix that? I tried to stay still in class, I really did, but it just never worked out. And what was I supposed to focus on? I did the work. It wasn't my fault I finished it a lot faster than my teachers planned on. What was I supposed to do? And it wasn't like they gave us recess at the Jr. High/High School like they had back at Elementary. I couldn't help it that I needed to move around a little bit now and then. Behavioral issues? Just because I always pointed out when Mr. Craig wasn't explaining something right. Was I supposed to just stay silent when he got the wrong answers? And most teachers told us that it was good to ask questions. Was it my fault that I asked things that he didn't know how to answer?

I sighed and threw the report card in my trash.

So. I was supposed to just come home and come back to my room every day. And under no circumstances was I to talk to any of the staff. I felt my eyes wet again as I considered that. Nobody talked to me at school either. It just…hurt. Why didn't anyone like me?

I was good the first few days, going straight to my room and staying out of everybody's way. I didn't talk to anyone unless they talked to me first; and even then, I said only as much as absolutely necessary to answer their questions. I made sure on my quizzes to purposely start answering some questions wrong so that I could put my grade at a perfect solid "B". Every test was scored at exactly 85%, so that I didn't slip into the B- category, but also didn't risk accidentally toppling back into the As.

I even tried to stay still at my school desk, though I just couldn't; how was someone supposed to function like that?

That all lasted for a while, but after a few weeks, something had to give or I was going to go crazy. I was careful to follow all the rules at school, but when I got home, I just couldn't stand being cooped up anymore. So I decided that every day when I got home, instead of going to my room, I'd explore the estate a bit. For the first time ever, I ventured out to see Dad's putting green. I was careful not to step onto it as I had the feeling that he'd somehow know I did, but walked the perimeter, swinging my imaginary 9 iron (or should I use one of the woods? I didn't really know that much about golf…)

On rainy days I knew better than to stay outside and risk tracking mud into the house, so I stayed in and began to explore the house itself. There were rooms I knew existed but had never been allowed to visit, and I made it my goal to explore at least one of them every single day. It wasn't without risk, of course. I had to duck and hide in the shadows whenever any of the staff happened along (after the incident with Cook, I knew I could trust no one). I was also careful to smooth my footprints out of carpets and remove my shoes as not to leave scuff marks on the hardwood. Some days I was a Russian spy (Italians don't make quite as cool a spy), sneaking into the compound on a mission to obtain secret plans. Others I was in the CIA on a reconnaissance mission, or perhaps a cop performing a dangerous rescue.

I left Mom's rooms for the last. It just seemed somehow wrong to break her rules now. But in the end, curiosity won out. Besides, if I was old enough not to have a nanny, I was old enough to step foot in the formal parlor.

That room turned out to be extremely uninteresting. And covered with a thick layer of dust, indicating that nobody else thought it was very interesting, either. Though if Father ever knew about the dust, I bet there'd be a staff turnover. The staff whose jobs I saved probably wouldn't ever thank me, but I broke my rule about leaving no trace of my presence and carefully dusted the room. Who would ever suspect me of doing that, anyway? But it just…seemed like the right thing to do. Mom wouldn't have wanted her prized parlor to look like that.

Which finally left me with just one more room.

I left it alone for almost a week, feeling oddly like if I went into that room, it would be closing the door on Mom's memory for good. But each day I made my way down to the big double doors and just gazed at the ornate carvings along the doorway trim and the door handles. I stood outside the Grand Ballroom for half an hour each day, sometimes longer. Poised to go in, but not able to make myself take that final step. I would close my eyes and imagine Mom just on the other side of those doors. Dancing. Alive. I wasn't ready to let go of that vision at first.

But after a few days, finally, I was. I stopped thinking about her dancing and started imagining that much like the way the parlor had been left to dust, the ballroom was as well. And that just didn't seem right. Not only did I bring along dusting supplies, but I even managed to secretly procure everything needed to wash and wax the floor to really make it shine for her.

Once again I stood on the precipice of the Ballroom and closed my eyes, but this time I reached forward and pulled open the door.

"Dance with me Anthony!" I swore I could hear her call to me as I swept into the room. I imagined the time she taught me to Waltz and though I'd never been any good at it, I imagined that I was as I glided across the floor, pretending that we were having this one last dance before I opened my eyes and she was gone forever.

And she laughed delightedly as I dipped her down…

My eyes flew open as I realized that I really could hear a laugh, but it wasn't hers. Wasn't hers at all!

I blinked a few times and knew that my mouth was open and I probably looked like a complete moron as I stared, but there, across the ballroom, she was…

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"…there, across the ballroom, she was…" Tony trailed off, his expression full of wonderment as he spoke the words.

Gibbs frowned, watching his agent as he talked. Unlike most of DiNozzo's stories, he really wasn't sure where this one was going. DiNozzo may have been prone to telling a few tall tales in his time, but somehow he just couldn't imagine that he was actually going to tell some sort of ghost story here. He remained silent, though, as he waited for Tony to get to some sort of point. He waited patiently for a couple minutes until it becomes apparent that he needs a little prompting. "Tony?" he called softly.

"Sorry, Boss," Tony apologized with a small chuckle. "Got a little bit lost for a minute there." He looked up, an unusually bashful look on his face. "Looking back…she was a mess. All big hair and flashy sequins. But my God…she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen."


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: There is content warnings for this story. While there's nothing too graphic, it does include sex with a minor. There are a couple related warnings that are a bit spoilery (for this fic, not the series). If you want to be warned before you read further, jump down to the bottom of the chapter for the additional warning.

Oh, I noticed a couple errors in previous chapters (and probably will in this one as well…) so I'll be going back and doing some tweaking and mistake correcting; nothing that should make a significant change in the story, but since I posted this unbetaed, I know I missed a bunch of little things. If you spot errors, I do appreciate it if you PM me and let me know about them! Thanks!

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Part 3 of 3

She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.

Her blonde hair shined almost as much as the silver sequins on her outfit. Her legs were impossibly long, a fact that was accentuated by the overly high heels of her shoes and the tiny skirt--if it could even qualify as one--that left little to the imagination. In my world the girls were always all about having perfect tans, which made her pale skin almost seem exotic. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the creamy globes that were practically spilling out of the thin…I think her blouse could only be described as two straps that that crossed across her chest exposing her navel and pretty much everything else. For the first time I think I actually _understood_ all those things that guys at school were always talking about when they went on and on about girls.

My breath caught as I stared at her, mouth agape.

I honestly just about turned and ran as she took a few steps toward me, but instead I held my ground. I even straightened up and puffed out my chest a little bit in hopes that it'd make me look a bit bigger. Muscular. Impressive maybe even. At least I hoped that I didn't look as freaked out as I was actually feeling as she came right up to me.

"You must be Anthony," she said as she looked me over. I nodded, wondering how she knew who I was, but then realizing that of course she would since there weren't any other kids around the house. But that begged the question, just who was she? "Aren't you just gorgeous?" she cooed before I could ask.

I blinked. Was I? I'd never really thought about it. I mean I'd never really ever had to think about it; there hadn't ever been anyone I wanted to impress. But this girl?

"Only half as gorgeous as you," I blurted out, covering my embarrassment at my own words by flashing her a big grin, hoping she'd think I was joking. Not about her being gorgeous, of course, but that…I don't know. I just knew it didn't seem like the sort of thing that a kid should say to an adult. The sound of her laugh and the way her eyes lit up dissolved my humiliation away and replaced it with the desire to always make her laugh like that. I wondered if it always felt this good making girls laugh. Make them look at me like she was looking at me. It was all I could do not to gasp as she stepped closer, into my personal space.

"Dance with me, Anthony?" she asked as she reached out her hand to take mine.

I hesitated. "I…don't really know how," I admitted, feeling my cheeks pink at the admission. It wasn't all that often that I had to say those words. And it wasn't often that I found my face mere inches away from a woman's barely covered breasts. Okay, I doubt that had ever happened since I was a baby. And I doubt that I was nearly as fascinated with them back then.

This time when she laughed, I felt myself flood with shame, both because I knew this time she was laughing at me, and because the sound made me excited anyway. Really excited. Realizing what was happening I really did turn and flee before she could notice.

I ran all the way to my room and quickly locked myself in, just in case she somehow managed to find me. I felt like such an idiot. She probably thought I was a pathetic little kid, now. Of course that was fitting because that's exactly what I was, but…I didn't want her to think it. Then again, I didn't want her to think I was a little pervert, either, and she would've known if I hadn't run away when I did.

My…excitement had already vanished by the time I got to my room, but my stomach still felt all funny, and I felt as though my skin was all...tingly. And like I could very well spontaneously combust if I didn't find a way to calm down quickly. I remembered some of the older guys talking about taking cold showers and decided that just maybe it would be a good time to test out their theory.

I must have stood under the icy cold spray for a lot longer than I meant to because the next thing I knew one of the staff was pounding on the door, alerting me that Father would be at the table in just a couple minutes and I'd better hurry if I didn't want to be late. And if they didn't want their pay to be docked because they failed to make sure I was at the dinner table when he arrived, I silently attributed to their 'courtesy' call.

I hurriedly dressed for dinner and managed to make it to my place less than a minute before the dining room doors opened and my father strolled in with…_her_, hanging onto his arm. I quickly rose from my chair and stood politely until they were both seated.

"Anthony," Father addressed me for the first time since I'd been called into his office.

"Yes, Father?" I asked, unable to tear my eyes away from her. She was now dressed in an elegant dress that looked a whole lot like one of my mother's. In fact…I think it was maybe one of Mom's.

"I'd like you to meet your new stepmother," he announced. "Anthony, this is Rochelle. You will treat her with courtesy and respect," he added, a sharp coldness in his tone.

I swallowed hard. Stepmother? I blinked a few times, but still couldn't look away from her. She didn't look like a stepmother. Not at all like one. Worse…oh, God. I felt my body reacting again as I thought about how she'd made me feel earlier. I'd felt that? About my…stepmother?

And she must've known and _told_ him! Oh my God, that's what he was talking about with the courtesy and respect? I couldn't breathe.

"It's nice to meet you, Anthony," Rochelle's musical voice reached my ears. Nice to meet me? Then maybe she hadn't…? I realized I was staring when she gave me a little wink.

"N-nice to meet you too…." Rochelle. Was that what I was supposed to call her? Or was I supposed to call her Mom? That just seemed so wrong. It was too soon. Mother? Step-mama? Oh man. How was I supposed to think of her like a mother? Had they really gotten _married_? "W-what should I call you?" I stammered out, feeling completely lost.

She laughed lightly and I felt my cheeks pink again. "Rochelle's fine, gorgeous. At least for now," she added, winking again.

As soon as dinner was served, we all fell into the normal silence of dinner. I did my best to keep my eyes fixed on my plate, but every once in a while I had to sneak another peek at her. And most of the times I looked up, I found that she was watching me, too.

Dinner was almost done when Father was called away from the table to attend to some important business.

"Would you like me to teach you?" Rochelle asked as soon as he was out of the room.

"Excuse me?" I asked, genuinely confused as I let my attention focus on her.

"You said you didn't know how to dance. I could teach you."

My mouth was suddenly dry and I reached quickly for my water glass, drinking a lot more than what would be considered polite by society standards.

"I'm a dancer, after all," she continued. "I always wanted to teach someone."

"I…don't think I'm supposed to be in there."

"Not even to mop?" she asked, teasing me a little bit. Oh God! I'd forgotten all about--and I'd just left the mop and everything outside the doors and-- "Hey, it's okay," she purred, suddenly out of her chair and kneeling beside mine, looking up into my face. "I put it all away. It's okay." Her hand dropped onto my leg and she rubbed it gently. "Nobody even has to know about it," she told me. "It'll be our little secret."

And so began our lessons.

Every day after school I'd get home and instead of going straight to my room, I went straight to the ballroom. It was a secret, of course. Not just because I was going where I wasn't supposed to go, but also because…it wasn't exactly cool for a young boy to take dance classes. Well, maybe it would have been since they were one-on-one lessons, and they were with a girl who I was becoming more and more infatuated with. Which, of course, had to stay my own personal secret.

Each day she'd teach me a new dance. From the Waltz, to the Foxtrot, to countless other dances. And once I had each mastered (as with many other disciplines, I was deemed to be a 'quick study') we would practice it and go back and review some of the others. She began teaching me to assist her with her own dance practices. I wasn't big or strong enough to perform most of the lifts she had in mind, but she taught me how to do them anyway. It was a little embarrassing, really, but she'd guide my hands to where they were supposed to be. And sometimes where my hands went made me think completely inappropriate things about my stepmother. More afternoons than not, I ended up making sure that there was time for me to take a shower before meeting up with Father for dinner.

Father's business started taking up more and more time, and his after dinner plans with Rochelle often had to be placed on hold or cancelled entirely. Each night at dinner we would silently wait until he was called away. The first several times he left so abruptly, Rochelle seemed pretty sad about it, but then…then we started talking.

She'd tell me (in really…colorful language! I wondered sometimes if Father knew she talked like that--he'd probably have taken me over his knee if I'd ever said any of those things) about her rehearsals and performances and sometimes about the show she always dreamed about auditioning for down at Radio City Music Hall. And then I'd tell her about my day. If I was upset about something that happened at school, she let me talk it out with her and always seemed to know what to say to make me feel better about it. And she'd tell me how her choreographer didn't like the way she did some step and I'd tell her that the man must be crazy because I'd never seen a more amazing dancer. That always seemed to make her really happy.

After dinner I was supposed to go back to my room to retire for the night, but after the first few times Father was called away, Rochelle invited me to join her in the Grand Room after dinner where we'd watch movies together and then talk about them until it came time to retire for the night.

That was how things went for a couple months, and for me, those were the happiest times that I had known since my mother died. And though it made me feel incredibly guilty to even think it, in some ways, I was even happier than when she was alive. To Rochelle (which I learned was mysteriously spelled 'Rachel' on her Driver's License) I wasn't just some annoying kid. The time she spent with me made me feel really…special. I wasn't her dress-up doll, I wasn't her toy poodle to parade around her friends…I was her friend. She even made me a cake on my birthday; all by herself. It didn't look so hot, but it was the best cake I'd ever eaten. I didn't even mind that Father missed my birthday dinner.

Unfortunately it seemed that while everything was going well for me, they weren't going quite so well for Rochelle.

One afternoon I went to the ballroom, but she wasn't there. I waited for a while, practicing some of the things she'd taught me; but she didn't ever come. That night, she didn't come to dinner, either. I was dying to ask Father where she was, but he never once gave me the opportunity.

I didn't even finish dinner that night. As soon as Father was called away, I checked the Grand Room, but she wasn't there, either. I went back to my room, so upset that I felt sick. I undressed and crawled into bed all the while wondering: Had I done something wrong? Had she finally tired of me like everyone else seemed to? Or worse, was she sick? Like mom was? Or had she finally had enough of Father leaving her alone? God, what if she was actually the new 'Nanny Jean'? What if he'd been paying her to stay with me but now was firing her? I felt worse as I thought about the possibilities.

Finally I decided I needed to find out for myself what was going on.

After pulling on my robe, I snuck into Father's private wing and stole down the long hallway and to the Master Bedroom. Once I was there, I almost chickened out. What if Father hadn't left? I was never to come into his rooms unless it was under his command.

On the other hand…I really just wanted to know that everything was alright. If I'd done something wrong, I wanted to fix it, or if she was sick, I wanted to make sure she got taken care of, or if she was gone…I just wanted to know. So I knocked lightly on the door.

When no one answered, I knocked again a little harder. "Rochelle?" I called softly through the door. And when there was still no answer, I cautiously opened the door just far enough to peek in. I just wanted to make sure that she was okay.

"Hey, Gorgeous," she called out to me in a voice that didn't even sound like it belonged to her, it was so raspy. So, she was sick, I realized as I made my way into the room.

"Hi," I greeted softly as I stepped into the room. She was sprawled out on the bed, wearing a flashy robe and I suspect little else. I caught myself staring for a few moments before realizing that I really shouldn't be. "Sorry. I'll go…I just wanted to make sure you were okay," I stammered quickly as I turned to get out.

"It's okay," she assured me, though. "Come on. Join me," she invited, patting the spot on the bed beside her. I hesitated, but she repeated the invitation, sounding a little hurt by the way I'd turned away.

So I climbed into bed beside her, carefully averting my eyes from where her robe was falling open. I wondered if she realized.

"Sorry I didn't show up today," she apologized after a couple minutes of silence. Her voice was small and pained. I looked to see that her eyes were red from crying and it broke my heart. Her cheeks were lightly streaked with black from the mascara she hadn't bothered to wash off for the night.

"Are you okay?"

She just shook her head. "I didn't make it," she informed me. "I had my audition. They said…I didn't have the right look."

What? I stared at her again. I'd never known anyone who looked like her. "But you're so pretty!" I blurted out before I could stop it. The way she smiled told me that I said the right thing, though. "They're just stupid," I assured her in the only way I knew how.

She smiled, her eyes shining as reached out and stroked my cheek. "That's sweet, Anthony, but I'm not…I'm really not. They said I wasn't sophisticated. No shit, right?" I would have laughed except I knew she wasn't saying it to be funny. Besides, sure, she wasn't like any of the women who lived around here; to me that's what made her so intriguing.

"Well…I think you're beautiful," I repeated my assessment, blushing slightly at the admission.

"You're the only one who ever tells me that," she admitted quietly. Really? Not even Father--And then I lost all train of thought as she leaned in and kissed me.

It was at once weird and exciting. Weird because it felt good, it made my lips and skin tingle, it made my heart race, and mostly because…because she was my stepmother. As soon as that thought struck I pulled back quickly, embarrassed by the way my body was instinctively responding.

"It's okay," she whispered, her hand stroking my cheek again. And then she was kissing me. This time it wasn't soft but…insistent. Desperate. And I understood desperation. I knew how it felt to feel rejected and lonely and…and…all rational thought fled as I realized that her robe had come open and she was wearing nothing beneath it.

I'd seen naked women in movies, of course. But that was nothing like having one right there before you. Guiding your hands to places on their bodies where they wanted you to touch them. She'd done it before in the ballroom, but that was…not the same. Not this time. This time it was…wild and…wrong. Oh so very wrong, my mind was screaming out even as my body ached for more.

"It's okay, Anthony," she assured me, whispering into my ear as she leaned over me, pressing her breasts into my hands as she reached down and tugged the belt of my robe.

"No. Wait," I finally managed to choke out as I struggled to get out from beneath her. I tried to push her gently away from me. "Don't," I gasped as I felt her hand snaking into my shorts. I pushed her harder, wincing as I realized that my hands were still on her breasts. When she backed off for a moment, I rolled, tumbling from the bed and landing heavily and awkwardly on the floor. It took me a moment to orient myself enough to scramble to my feet. I was ready to bolt for the door when I heard her. Sobbing.

I froze again and turned to see her drawing the sheet up over herself. "I'm sorry. What's wrong with me? I just…why doesn't anybody love me?" she asked.

"I love you," I assured her. And I did. She was my best friend in the whole world. My only friend. She looked up and the expression on her face screamed the same things I'd felt time and again. Feelings of doubt and insecurity and loneliness, and…questionable worth. "I love you," I repeated, cautiously stepping closer to the edge of the bed.

"Then…" she asked looking up at me with that same quiet desperation. "Lie with me."

Part of me knew that's not what she was really asking. Part of me knew, but denied it. She just wanted someone to hold her. Someone to show they cared. And I could do that. I nodded slowly and slid back into bed beside her. I put my arm out and she snugged up against me. I could feel my heart still racing for a couple minutes until I was actually convinced that what we were doing was okay; we were just being comfortable and companionable. Innocent cuddling.

But then she kissed me again. Softly. Gently. And it felt good. Amazing. And I found myself kissing her back. It was nice…and then suddenly it wasn't. It was wrong! I tried to push her away again, but this time it was like she didn't even register it.

"Stop," I gasped, even as my body was waking to the sensations she was creating. It paradoxically felt incredibly good and incredibly frightening at the same time. It was like I had absolutely no control over my own body. And worse, I didn't over my mind, either. I was supposed to want this. God, I loved her. She was beautiful and sexy and fun and…and I was supposed to like this. Sex was practically all the guys talked about at school. But I didn't want this. Not…not…

"Are you fucking stupid?" she suddenly asked as she straddled my body, peering down into my face.

I felt as though I'd been slapped. What? Why would she…? I shook my head, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

"Then what is it? Are you queer?" I couldn't even respond to that. She laughed. "Fuck, that's it, isn't it. Christ, I should have known…"

"N-no," I insisted, my eyes tearing up.

"Then just shut up and enjoy it," she purred, pressing herself against me.

---

"Just shut up and enjoy it," Tony repeated the words as he stared down into his mug at the last of the amber liquid. "Romance at its best, huh?" His grin was almost feral as he looked back up at Gibbs.

Gibbs wasn't sure what to say. He'd always had his suspicions about DiNozzo's childhood. He knew all sorts of platitudes that just didn't seem like enough. His entire body was tense with anger, but he knew that Tony was too on edge for him to express it just then.

"It was over fast, really," Tony was suddenly dismissive of the whole thing, which only intensified Gibbs' anger. "I mean it was my first time, you know. So…it was over fast."

"Tony." Gibbs' voice was too gentle. Calculatingly soothing, but with an edge that made Tony more nervous again.

"It was awkward. And uncomfortable. She was…it wasn't like she was really heavy or anything; she wasn't…she was…petite. Except her boobs," he added, wagging his eyebrows as if this were a fond memory instead of a painful one. "But I was…I was twelve. And small for my age." Again his grin was over-wild as he added, "except you know…down there."

"Tony."

And then Tony's eyes were glistening again. "I was supposed to enjoy it. It was supposed to be the best thing that ever happened to me, right?" his voice was slightly shaky. "But…I couldn't breathe. It was like she was…crushing me. And…and it hurt. And still it felt good. But I couldn't…it…"

And then Gibbs' hand was on Tony's shoulder. He didn't need to speak. Tony already knew everything the man felt. He stared up at Gibbs, looking much like the 12 year old child that had been forced into an adult world far too early.

"I didn't mean to…" Tony whispered blinking quickly a few times.

Gibbs looked at him silently.

"I know. I didn't. It wasn't my fault," Tony spoke the words Gibbs' eyes were relaying. "But I shouldn't have--" he stopped, his eyes dropping back to the mug until he felt Gibbs' hand under his chin, gently urging him to look back up again. For a few moments he stubbornly closed his eyes, but when they opened again and he met Gibbs' gaze, he gave a small nod, and a slight but honest smile. "I know."

Gibbs nodded back and took a small sip of his bourbon, waiting for DiNozzo to get the rest out of his system. It took a few minutes for Tony to start talking again, but Gibbs was willing to wait as long as necessary.

"I don't know how, but somehow my dad knew about it," Tony spoke at last. "That night…it was the next to last time I saw her. She was packed and out of the house before I got home from school the next day. And I was shipped off to the Academy within the following week. Found out I was disinherited, too," he added bitterly. "Guess he thought it wasn't my fault, too, huh?"

The two men sat in companionable silence for several minutes until finally Gibbs drained the last drops from his mug. He knew that what Tony needed tonight was the assurance that they were okay, and yet that Gibbs wasn't pitying him. Calculatingly, he reached forward and picked up Tony's mug, drinking the remainder of the liquor quickly. "Guess I shouldn't drive. You're taking me home. Maybe pick up a pepperoni, sausage, and extra cheese?" he suggested, raising his eyebrow pointedly.

Tony's grin was genuine as he nodded his agreement. "Thanks, Boss," he said, knowing that Gibbs would know it wasn't just for the pizza.

"Next to last time?" Gibbs prompted as they stepped into the elevator.

Tony smiled faintly. He may have lied to McGee about sleeping with a Rockette when he was 15, but Gibbs had taught him well; there should always be an element of truth in your lies.

"Ran into her once when I was fifteen. I was in New York and went to see the Christmas show down at Radio City Music Hall…"

End Version 1.0

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This story is complete, but did have two fairly different ideas for the direction this story should take. This is the one that I felt I had the best chance of completing in time to complete the NFACommunity "First Time" challenge by the due date. The other one is a bit longer, darker, and will likely contain a lot more Gibbs involvement post-revelation than this version. I will post the other version here in this same story (the first 2 chapters will essentially be identical to the first 2 chapters of this one), so if you're interested in the alternate version, you might want to alert this, even though it says it's complete.

Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed. And as always, comments and constructive criticisms are always appreciated!

* * *

* And the spoilery warnings: This fic involves non-graphic incestuous (M/F) sex with dubious consent involving a minor.


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